Sleepless in Lawrence, Kansas
by Prince-Malice
Summary: "Destiny is something we've invented because we can't stand the fact that everything that happens is accidental." - Sleepless in Seattle DESTIEL SamXRuby RADIO AU
1. We are all subject to gravity

Sleepless in Lawrence, Kansas – chapter one – We are all subject to gravity

Castiel's favorite thing about the studio was the translucent blanket of gold light that settled over his workspace. He showed up just past eleven with a half-caf cup of joe and a sourdough bagel, flickered on the overhead lamp, and gazed at his empty chair. He sat in it, letting its aged creak warm him with familiarity.

He was alone, like always, and the silence was so gaping that each of his own exhales sounded like a wave crashing against the shore. The lights of the console lit up, a series of blinking controls, and Castiel slipped his headphones on. They settled against his ears perfectly where their shape had been molded into the soft leather over the years. He couldn't bear to replace them. He had a tendency to hold on to such things.

Castiel ran the edge of his thumb across the silver knob that controlled the '_On Air_' sign. No one would interrupt him, but the sound of it like two tumblers clicking together was the most satisfying moment of each night. Collecting his breath and sipping at his coffee, Castiel tossed the switch and let its _thunk_ hit his stomach. The black numbers on the clock to his left shuttered to midnight and the vast quiet of the studio filled with his rumbling voice.

"Thank you for tuning in to our nationwide broadcast. We're live at midnight in Seattle, Washington. This is Midnight Matters."

* * *

_"It's not as though the world is determined to drag us down, but it may often feel that way. When you become convinced that everything is working against you, remind yourself, we are all subject to gravity."_

"Are you listening to that radio show again? You know that guy is full of shit, right?"

The little house in Lawrence, Kansas was the only one on its street with every light left on. Inside, Dean fished through his fridge for the fourth time that night, frowning when its contents had not changed. Beside him, his younger brother, Sam, fiddled with the antennae of their out-of-date radio. The voice that drifted from the other end was distorted by static and only every other sentence or so that he said could be understood.

"Shut up, Dean. You just hate radio shows. If you actually _listened_ to this one, you'd probably like it," Sam said, cringing as a sharp whistle erupted from the seemingly harmless device.

"It's a sign. Shut it off."

"You don't believe in signs!"

Dean watched his brother make a fool of himself before he ambled over.

"You forgot to close the fridge."

"I'm trying to help you," Dean said, sliding into the chair beside him.

"You're letting out the cold."

"Sam, are you seriously, like, five?"

Sam furrowed his eyebrows and stuck his lip out. Dean's expression remained tight. Sam stood up to close the fridge, but instead he stared into its blinking abyss of milk and eggs and unidentifiable leftovers wrapped in tin foil, labeled with initials of which the meaning had long been forgotten.

"_Don't ever feel the need to look at yourself in the mirror and criticize what you see. If everyone spends all their time hating themselves, how is anything ever going to get done?_" the voice on the radio said.

Dean raised an eyebrow and although Sam hadn't faced him, his shoulders still tensed.

"He's not wrong."

"He sounds like a fortune cookie."

After tampering with the contraption's various dials and the old bent metal of the antennae, Dean finally decided to place it on the very top of the entertainment center, on the East end of the house. Instantaneously, the room flooded with crisp, uninterrupted words.

"_As a child, there was no way for you to know where it was that you would end up. People ask you about your dreams and ambitions and although it all seems pointless, there is no greater sadness than when they stop asking. It makes you feel as if those same ambitions are no longer important or realistic. They tell a child who wants to be President to grasp tightly to that dream and revel in its security of a place to belong one day. You get older though, and that's where the real trouble starts. A college student says they want to be president, their mentor says to quit dreaming, that they should be more concerned about their future and should not waste time mulling over fantasies._"

Sam and Dean sat on their weathered couch, Sam with his legs crossed broadly and Dean in the broken corner that he loved to sink into. The TV was on, but muted, and neither man paid attention to the black and white western. They each drank a beer and Dean shifted as if adjusting beneath the weight of the words that painted their walls. The sinkhole began to seem less inviting and more consuming.

"_Aspirations are losing their value, and what do you have left when you have lost the ability to dream? Do you sit at home, on your old hand-me-down couch, and think about all the promises your parents made, the times they swore that you were capable of anything? Does the thought sting?_"

"I'm going to bed," Dean snapped, dragging himself up. Sam looked to follow in his example, but a wave of his brother's hand kept him in place. Sam would let his brother storm off, it was the only way Dean ever really got his feelings out.

"_It's time to take callers. Who have I got on the line?_"

"_Hello, my name is Aaron and I'm from Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania." _

_"Hello, Aaron. How can I help you today?"_

_"Well, I guess I just wanted to ask about children who _did_ know what life had in store for them, because their parents planned it all out. What about their ambitions or satisfaction?"_

_"That's a marvelous question, Aaron."_

* * *

Castiel never tired of his job. At 2AM, he flicked the '_On Air'_ switch off, tossed his empty coffee cup in the bin, and shrugged his tan overcoat on. It was repetitive, yes, but it was a path worn down so well he knew the steps by heart. When Castiel turned off the light, the cold of the barren studio lapped at his ankles. Every night, it was harder to walk away.

The silence followed Castiel home like a stray cat or pesky shadow. His door groaned open and his living room was bland, save a couch and his answering machine's blinking light.

"_Great show tonight, Cassie, but I still think you need to ramp it up a bit. Don't you think you've been riding this 'self help' wave for a bit too long? Call me back!_"

The voice shut off and the sharp tone of the woman behind the machine alerted Castiel that he had no other messages.

He sunk into his couch, old but still useful, once his brother's, and let out a heavy sigh. 

* * *

"Hello, you're on live with Midnight Matters, to whom am I addressing?" Castiel asked, adjusting the wire of his headphones that he had somehow wrapped around his arm.

_"Um, yes, hi. My name is Sam and I'm calling from Lawrence, Kansas."_

A new voice... Castiel loved new voices. They always had new stories to tell.

"Kansas… well, it's not really midnight down there, is it? What keeps you up?" he asked.

_"I'm worried about my brother, Dean." _

Castiel tried to ignore the pull at his chest, the memory of his own brothers, of whom he had mostly grown apart. Family stung that way.

"Is he in some sort of trouble?"

_"No, nothing like that. It's just that I'm about to leave for college and we've never really been apart."_

"Sam," Castiel said, the panic that had begun to swell within him diminished. He could not fight back a smile at such a perfect, ordinary sadness. "Leaving home is one of those inevitable things. Of course your family will miss you, but Dean will be alright. Life goes on, and you'll come back."

Or he wouldn't.

_"That's just it. I'm sort of all he's got. I'm scared he's just going to sit around all day and… be alone."_

"Have you spoken to him about this yet?"

_"What? God, no. we don't talk about… feelings. It's one of his pet peeves."_

Castiel tried to stifle a laugh. He rested his chin on a clenched fist and gazed at the microphone as if this _Sam_ was hiding within it.

"One of the biggest obstacles one might have about sharing their feelings is that they believe they are not worth being heard. Does your brother think he does not deserve to be heard?"

_"I didn't think of it that way."_

"It is easy to excuse reluctance as pride," Castiel said, "But it is more difficult to assume that the problem runs deeper." He rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb, trying to press away the tightness of a caffeine-induced headache. "Especially when concerning a loved one."

"_Um, thanks. I'll try to talk to him about it. I mean, I don't think he'll listen…_"

"He is your brother, I am certain that he values your feelings whether he'll admit it or not."

"_Thanks."_

"Of course. Do call back, Sam."

Castiel set a Greg Holden song to play and refilled his cup. He forgot to put his usual two sugar packets in, but didn't seem to notice as he listened to the strum of the guitar and took careful sips.

* * *

_"Your ratings have dropped recently. Don't you think it's time for a picker-upper, Cassie?"_

Castiel deleted the message and turned the TV on to an old, black and white western. The sound of gunshots and clattering horse hooves could not keep the man awake. He sank into his couch and buried his nose in the crook where the backboard met the armrest. It smelled like smoke still, after decades of his brother having quit.

Some parts of the past were permanent. They soaked a thousand polyester fibers, which singular, meant nothing, but together, wove something greater.

* * *

"_He's not listening to me._"

"How so?" Castiel asked, wrapping a rubber-band around his thumb and watching it turn purple.

"_He said, 'no chick-flick moments', and then called me Samantha._"

"I'm sorry, Sam."

Always sorry.

"_He's acting like it's no big deal, but he hasn't even been sleeping lately."_

"Aren't you up late as well?"

"_Yeah, but I work a night shift. He just, doesn't sleep."_

* * *

"Dean?" Sam called from the living room.

Dean buried his head into his hands. He wasn't sure how much more of his brother's hounding he could handle without snapping. It was bad enough that the brat was leaving, but if he left on a bad note? Dean wouldn't forgive himself.

"I swear, Sam, if you wanna talk about my feelings again, I'm jumping out the window." His bedroom door opened, he could feel his brother staring at his back and it burned where his eyes must have been. "What is it?"

"The phone. It's for you."

Dean turned to see Sam, his eyes the same innocent brown buttons as when he had been five and Dean had read him to sleep. He held out the cordless phone and wore an expression that Dean knew meant he was fighting guilt.

"Who is it?"

"Just… Just take it."

* * *

"_I'm going to kill him._"

"Calm down, Dean," Castiel said, perking up. He'd never played mediator before, but surely the concept was the same. Pin-point the problem, guide them to a solution. He'd been doing that for years already. "You're brother is just concerned for you. Humor us both and participate at least for fifteen minutes."

"_I don't want to complain on the phone about my problems to a stranger… to a bunch of strangers._"

"You are alive, I do not see what you have to complain about," Castiel said.

_"I don't _have_ any complaints, but Sammy here seems to think I'm just one big bag of problems."_

"Is he there with you?"

_"No, he's in the other room. Eavesdropping, no doubt."_

Castiel has spoken to countless people in his years of hosting. It wasn't until recently that he abandoned his morning slot for a midnight one, for which his coworker, Balthazar, had made him out to be crazy. He had to make the change. Castiel had already spoken to so many people that they all began to sound like the same angry, conceited person. By switching to a midnight slot, Castiel was assaulted with a variety of callers so unlike one another, that he began to remember their names, their vocal mannerisms, even the tone of their voices.

Dean's voice was low, baritone. At some point, Castiel had begun to believe that Dean was the younger brother, but his voice severed that thought in seconds. He wondered if his faithful listeners had grown curious about the stranger, if they were startled by his obvious rough edges.

"Sam seems to think you need a friend," Castiel said.

_"I've got friends, down at the roadhouse." _

"Roadhouse?"

"_Oh, yeah, it's a restaurant and a bar that Ellen owns. If you're listening, Ellen, free advertisement!"_

Castiel let out a laugh, covering his eyes with one large palm. His cheeks felt heated with glee.

"Who's Ellen?"

_"Oh. She kind of raised me." _

"Sam too?"

_"Nah, I raised Sam."_

Castiel could almost hear the uncoiling of Dean's nerves. He talked about his 'baby' brother, and how he had received a full ride scholarship to Stanford, at which the sound of aforementioned brother echoed through the line a shout of '_don't tell them that!' _They bickered a moment, their words broken over the line, but then Dean was back, saying '_sorry_' and '_if he's gonna embarrass me, you can bet I'mma embarrass him._'

Even the blistering coffee in Castiel's hand was not as warm as the sounds that seeped through his headphones.

Half an hour passed easily, but Dean didn't seem to notice. Perhaps what he had needed was a mediator after all.

"Dean, are you currently committed?" Castiel asked after their conversation simmered down.

_"Are you asking if I'm single?"_

"Yes."

_"Yeah I guess. I don't really do the whole commitment thing."_ Dean's words carried a shrug with them.

"Why not?"

_"I'm just not used to things being long term."_

"I am going to assume that extends beyond just relationships?"

_"Assume all you want."_

Castiel frowned when Dean's sharp, original tone returned. Their pleasant discussion had been forgotten.

_"_Sam is worried that you are lonely."

_"Oh he is, is he?"_

"Do you listen to my show, Dean?" he asked, not sure how he'd feel about any answer.

_"Not really. Sammy loves it. He's always leaving it on in the kitchen. I hear your voice a lot, so it's sort of like I'm listening to it."_

Castiel thought about the horse hooves that trampled him into sleep, the ring of gunshots that kissed the back of his neck so that the small hairs there stood. He thought about how, with that cacophony behind him, he could pretend that his apartment was not empty.

"Then, if you are lonely, let my voice keep you company."

_"I'm not lonely. I'm fine, just having trouble sleeping is all."_

"Then let me play you a song instead. Do you have any requests?"

"_Surprise me._"

The very first notes rang out and Castiel heard a sharp intake of breath over the line.

"Is that okay?" he asked, aware that his and Dean's voices were no longer on the air.

"Yeah. It's fine."

He let the song play through, _Hey Jude_, and when it quivered to a close, Castiel realized that the calling hour had already ended. He mentioned a few last things, including "Remember, Lawrence, Kansas, I'm always going to be here," and flipped off the '_On Air_' sign.


	2. Compassionate ears don't pay the rent

Sleepless in Lawrence, Kansas – chapter two – Compassionate ears don't pay the rent

"It's a sign!" Sam shouted, taking one long leap over the couch. Dean still held the phone, the line already dead, listening to the surge of the Beatles from the radio perched on the entertainment center. Sam watched Dean's expression, searching for even a shred of vulnerability. "Mom used to sing that to you, didn't she? When you couldn't sleep?"

"Yeah, so?" Dean snapped, tossing the phone on the coffee table.

"_So,_ maybe it means that you are supposed to listen to that show. You know... a sign."

While sleeping, Dean could still sometimes feel the brush of his mother's gold curls against his cheek, the way they had when she would lean down to kiss his forehead when he was little. Every night he'd wake up, brush his face with his knuckles, and _swear_ he felt it, even after so many years.

"I don't believe in signs, remember?" he grumbled, flicking the light off and retreating to his room.

Sam stood in the dark, watching the vast plane of Dean's undecorated door. Just as he stood to retire as well, the man's voice rang out on the radio for the final time of the night.

_"Remember, Lawrence, Kansas, I'm always going to be here."_

Sam darted his gaze from the radio to his brother's room. He would have to remember to tell Dean about it in the morning.

* * *

Castiel only went into the office twice a week. He and his coworkers would discuss ratings, angles, and upcoming events before calling it a day, not bothering to see each other again until the next meeting.

He was pouring himself a cup of coffee, his third, and staring with narrowed eyes at a note stuck to the employee fridge with a candy-cane magnet.

"It's October," he said.

"I'm glad you like the magnet, but did you actually read the paper?"

Castiel turned to see Anna, her scorching red hair pulled back into a pomade ponytail. It was professional, but did her little justice. She was fairer than the week before, but even then she had been fairer than the week before that. Work was tough.

"Twelve hoppin' new ideas for Midnight Matters- by Yours Truly," Castiel read aloud. He skipped the dozen bullet points and just tore the sheet away. It crumpled easily in one hand and didn't even hinder the satisfying sip of coffee he took as he destroyed it. "Balthazar just won't leave it alone."

"He thinks you need an edge," Anna said, turning on the electric kettle. She was more of a tea drinker.

"I know. He leaves me a voicemail about it every day." Except for the night before. The light that usually blinked so brazenly had stayed dark. Castiel thought that maybe Balthazar was running late, that he would call when he got the chance. When morning came and still no word, Castiel was convinced that the man was dead. It could be worse.

"It always warms my insides to know when people are talking about me."

Well, not dead, then.

"Balthazar," Castiel said. The man had short, sand-colored hair that was in a permanent state of cow-lick and large bags under his eyes that had been there since college. Behind him stood a much larger, dark-skinned man with his lips twisted in a permanent scowl. "And Uriel. Haven't seen you come in for a while now."

"Rarely do I feel the need to."

Castiel didn't hate Uriel. He felt towards him the way one might feel towards a splinter or biting too far down on one's nails… an uncomfortable ache.

"You didn't leave a message last night," Castiel said, turning back to Balthazar.

"I was beginning to think you didn't even listen to them," Balthazar said. "But if you must know, I didn't call because I was too busy sorting through the influx of emails and calls to the station that your little tryst last night warranted."

"What do you mean?"

"Like you don't know."

Castiel didn't know. Even Anna had a small, crooked smile.

"Shit, he really doesn't."

"Will you just tell me what you are talking about?" Castiel said, narrowing his eyes.

"Dean, from Lawrence, Kansas."

"What about him?"

"Oh, nothing really, just, you know, I got four hundred emails last night asking about him. The phone was ringing off the hooks, inquiring as to whether or not _Dean_ would be okay or if we would hear from him again anytime soon." Balthazar took Cas' cup away from him and set it on the counter a bit too forcefully. "No big deal. Just the greatest spike in listeners since you changed slots."

Castiel had to lean against the table while the information sank in. Midnight Matters had never been big. Castiel was seen by some of his coworkers as nothing more than a high school advice column and he accepted the ridicule. As long as he could ramble one-sided advice that he prayed meant something for two hours each night and play music that no one had any say over other than himself, he was happy. As many callers as he'd had, none made other listeners make themselves known the way Dean did.

Castiel wondered if it was Dean's voice or the honest affection he harbored for his brother. What about Dean reached into others and drew out their desire to help him? Castiel didn't know, but whatever it was, he felt it, too - like fingers tugging him by the belt-loops, no longer in control of his own center of gravity.

"Will we be hearing from him again?" Balthazar asked.

"It depends on whether or not he decides to call again."

Uriel rolled his bloodshot eyes. "What's it like hosting a radio show that caters to simpering fools who are unable to care for themselves?"

Castiel's shoulders tightened.

"_Really_, I'd love to know."

"Shut it, Uriel," Anna said, fixing her tea. "I like Dean. There is something heartwarming about him."

"You sound like just another desperate woman. It must be nice to be unmarried at, what is it? Thirty-two? Thirty-three?"

"That's enough of that," Balthazar interrupted, stepping in front of Uriel. "You're here for business, remember? Or have you forgotten in your petty, schoolyard dispute?"

Uriel snorted, but left it at that.

"Anyway. Instead of just arguing like a bunch of twats, I actually have a proposition to make."

Castiel watched Balthazar with a grimace. He had guessed that it would come to this.

"I think I found you a new show."

"What?"

Of all the stupid contests and advertisement ploys, Balthazar had never suggested Castiel _drop_ his slot.

"You wouldn't be the head. I mean, you'd have to work your way up. It's all political, and it's the perfect opportunity for you to get your voice heard in the kitchens of the American household," Balthazar said, wrapping an arm around Castiel's shoulders and squeezing. "You'd make quadruple your current salary, and that's before any promotions, which I know you are capable of receiving by the end of next year."

Castiel stayed quiet while his coworker (and long-time friend) pitched something that should have sounded ideal, but just made his stomach turn. He loved the guaranteed isolation of his current show. To be alone in a darkly furnished room with coffee and a sourdough bagel and the sleepless ears that listened to him… he had created that haven for himself.

Yet, money was hard. Castiel had two temporary slots on daytime radio already but both were nothing more than reporting local news or… he hated to admit, advertisements. Compassionate ears don't pay the rent.

"You would have to quit your nighttime slot," Uriel said, his expression never more satisfied.

"No."

"Come on, Cassie! With your ratings, you can't afford to keep this up. You're gonna crash and burn, or worse."

"What's worse?"

"The studio drops you altogether."

Anna put a hand on Castiel's arm. It did little to soothe him.

"How long do I have to think about it?" he asked, not meeting Anna's gaze. He did not want to see the pity that would be there. He would have pitied her, had their roles been reversed.

"I'm glad you asked," Balthazar said. "We've booked a conference for February fourteenth."

"Valentine's day?" Anna asked.

"Oh, is it? Oh well. You will be there, won't you?"

That gave him five months to think about it and find possible alternatives. If he picked up a third day job, he would financially be okay, but that wouldn't stop the station from dropping him. At least if he left of his own volition, he could stick with the station that he had been with for the past ten years.

"Where is the conference going to be at?" he asked. Balthazar tightened his grip once again and Castiel was sure that if Uriel rolled his eyes any more, he might pass out.

"The big apple, Cassie. The big apple."

"I don't understand why you can't just say 'New York'," Castiel grumbled.

"Well, where's the fun in that?"

* * *

Castiel didn't make a point to think about Dean, but he couldn't stop himself when he crawled into his too-soft bed and became all-too aware of its largeness. It was why he slept on the couch so often. The couch was small and when he curled into it, never felt lonely.

Trying to sleep, Castiel wondered how big Dean's house was, and how empty it would feel when his brother was gone.

* * *

_"It is when you walk into the office and the coffee has just finished brewing. It is the first note of your song playing on the radio. The moment you sink into your favorite spot on the couch and it welcomes you home."_

Dean made to deal cards to Sam, but his brother stopped him, placing a hand on his forearm.

"I can't do another, Dean. We've played six hands already."

"Then _you_ think of a way for us to spend time together that doesn't include a bar or TV," Dean snapped, taking the cards back. He was certain that Sam was just a sore loser.

_"Small satisfactions are important. You may not consider the smell of an old book or the spot on the bed that the sun warms past the moment you are treasuring them, but they stick with you. With everyone. These are the things, however small, that give us hope."_

"We've been spending all afternoon together," Sam said, gathering their empty beer bottles. He took them to the kitchen to rinse while Dean stretched out on the couch. "It's already three. Why don't you go to sleep?"

"You know I can't sleep."

From the Entertainment center, the voice went on.

_"We are about to start our call segment, so if you have anything to add to the topic of small satisfactions, stories to tell, or if you just need someone to talk to, give me a call."_

"You should call again, Dean."

"And why would I do that?" Dean turned to see Sam already holding the phone out to him, the number entered. "This is peer pressure."

"No, I'm just trying to help you."

Dean thought about how he had begun to open up so easily over the phone. It was as though a switch inside him had been flipped and he just wanted to tell someone _something_. It was a frightening loss of control, and he wasn't sure if he could deal with it again.

"Please, Dean. He just wants to help."

"We don't even know his _name_," Dean snapped, taking the phone anyway and pressing 'dial'.

* * *

"It's good to hear from you again, Lawrence, Kansas." Castiel was not exaggerating. He had been thinking of the man ever since Balthazar had told him of the startling number of listeners he had garnered. "How have you been this past week?"

"_Don't call me that. It's Dean, just Dean. And I couldn't sleep."_ He _sounded_ tired, like his words slugged along.

"That makes the both of us."

_"Funny. What's your day job?"_ Dean asked.

"You assume that I have a day job." Dean may have been right, but Castiel didn't have to mention that.

_"Yeah, well, I don't see how anyone could make a living off of a radio show no one listens to."_

Castiel let out a sharp laugh. "Your words are wounding!" he said, not offended in the slightest.

_"You know what I mean. Midnight Matters. Midnight, I'm guessing its midnight up there. But who listens to it?"_

Who indeed… Castiel thought on the numbers that would flash across the computer. The little red dots, scattered and clumped together, of those who tuned in each night. He didn't know any of them. There were the voices that called once and the voices that called all the time, but the rest were just a spatter of ratings on a digital map. So who _did_ listen to his show? Castiel wasn't even sure.

"There are many people who cannot sleep at night, Dean. While they are lying awake in bed, haunted by whatever it is they hide, I speak to them."

It was what Castiel told himself every night.

_"So, you're like an angel or something?"_

"Or something."

_"My brother sure acts like you must be. He was always a weird one._"

"How so?"

Dean told Castiel, and all those little red dots, about Sam when he was young. He compared him to a baby giraffe, all limbs and no coordination. For fun, Sam would read text books and practice algebra. Castiel laughed at the appropriate times, and once, while he described the first girl Sam ever took on a date, Dean laughed, too.

It was a deep, thundering sort of laugh that settled in your rib cage. Castiel had to place a hand to his chest to be sure his heart had not stuttered at the sound.

"You have a wonderful laugh, Dean," he said, without thinking.

"_Right. I didn't know you were also a comedian."_

Castiel frowned as, once again, the mirth fled from Dean's tone.

"Dean… You cannot measure self-worth by your own lowest opinion of yourself," Castiel said.

Dean stayed silent. For a moment, there was only dead air.


	3. Distance promised a painless parting

Sleepless in Lawrence, Kansas – chapter three – Distance promised a painless parting

"What's the first thing they told you, Cassie? The day you showed up with your hair looking like a train wreck and that ugly, over-sized coat that you _still_ won't get rid of… what did they tell you?"

Castiel groaned, burying his face in his hands. Behind him, Balthazar's were propped against his hips. Even the dip of his v-neck sweater could not diminish how intimidating he was.

"_Castiel_."

"No dead air, alright?" Castiel snapped, drawing his chair back and standing. "Never have dead air."

"And what did you do?" Balthazar asked slowly, like speaking to a child.

"I had dead air."

"Good. Now that we've established what you did wrong, what are you going to do about it?"

Castiel stormed out of the conference room, Balthazar on his heels. They hadn't even officially started their meeting but the man was there, waiting for him, just like Castiel knew he would be.

"Grovel to the station? I don't know, Balthazar!" he said, passing Anna in the hall. She turned her head at his harsh tone, but he wouldn't look at her. Castiel never lost his cool. "There is nothing I _can _do. Besides, I doubt the network even bothers _listening_ to my slot anymore."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know _exactly what it means_."

Castiel left the building with his jaw clenched and his head swimming with unease, mostly at himself.

* * *

Castiel stood in the 'less than twenty items' lane at the market because his basket had nothing but an onion and two water bottles. It was early, not even eight, and it had taken much will to drag himself off the couch and to the kitchen. He somehow made it, only to find that his dreams of an omelet would go unfulfilled. There were no onions.

Castiel could have prepared something else, or even left onion out of the omelet altogether, but instead he pulled on his large, tan trench coat and ventured out.

The streets were swarmed with children in cheaply-made costumes and it occurred to him, _oh, it's Halloween, isn't it?_ this was confirmed when a young girl, likely ten or so, said, "What are you supposed to be?" with a suspicious leer.

Castiel loved children, really, but children often didn't feel the same towards him.

The women before him in the checkout line had fake eyelashes and press-on nails. They looked at each other as if sharing a secret, and when they deemed him non-threatening, began to whisper.

"Did you hear_ him_ the other night?" one asked the other, the back of her hand brought to her lips to hide her words. "On the radio?"

"Of course! I haven't been so excited in such a long time," the other said. "Lawrence, Kansas sounds so dreamy."

Castiel's attention had been officially garnered.

"And lonely! It's a shame _I _can't keep him company."

The two broke out into giggles and when they noticed Castiel watching them, it only fueled their mirth.

The way one might consider opening a door in a moving car or pushing a friend over a steep ledge, Castiel thought about revealing himself. What would they say if they knew? If the man in the wrinkled coat with too much stubble turned out to be the voice they listened to on the radio… would it change things?

The thought fled quicker than it came, and Castiel turned away. He didn't know why he felt the urge to confess. Did he want recognition? Or did he really just want to say "_His name is Dean_" and not be judged for it?

"I hope he calls back," the first woman said, taking her bags.

_Me too, _Castiel thought. _Me too._

* * *

_"Why is your show called Midnight Matters? Is it because you discuss the most mundane things so late at night… or…"_

Castiel had begun to believe that he wouldn't call again. Dean was so adamant to talk to him the first time that to call twice was already a miracle. Sure enough, after a few brief exchanges with strangers, that familiar voice filled his ears and Castiel found himself clutching his headphones. He cradled them.

"Or?"

_"Or because those mundane things… well, matter? You know what? It's stupid, just forget I said anything,"_ Dean trailed off. Castiel imagined that his ears might have gone red. Maybe Dean was the sort whose blush even traveled down his neck.

"You matter, and I think that's enough to answer that."

Castiel felt like he was being unwrapped. Delicate at first, but as patience ran out, ripped apart.

* * *

It was clear that Balthazar was on his toes at their next meeting. Even Uriel seemed to be holding back a series of aggressive comments, and it wasn't like him to censor himself. It was Anna who approached Castiel, to no one's surprise.

"Hello, Castiel," she said, sliding into the chair beside him.

On the table, he had spread out charts of his recorded views for the past several weeks.

"What's that?" Anna asked, pointing to a spot where a nearly flat line shot up like a spike in blood pressure.

"That is two minutes into Sam's second phone call."

"Sam is?"

"Dean's brother. The one who is leaving for college."

Anna followed the slope of the graph like a thrill ride, up until the line stayed constant at a record peak.

"How did this happen?" she asked.

"People are talking about him."

"About Dean?"

Castiel nodded.

"I overheard a couple of women the other day at the grocery. They expressed a certain interest in Lawrence, Kansas."

"That's never-" Balthazar began.

"Never happened before. I know."

People didn't just walk down the streets discussing Midnight Matters. Castiel was no Ellen or Dr. Phil, he was just a voice people listened to because it was there. They didn't want to admit that they couldn't sleep or that they willingly stayed up to catch a 'self help' radio show, and that didn't bother him.

Castiel never knew how close his listeners were. He preferred that they be nothing but a constellation of red dots. Distance promised a painless parting. When a particular dot would inevitably blink away from existence, Castiel would not miss it – he never truly knew it to begin with.

After his run-in, Castiel pictured those two women sitting across from him with their hands folded on their laps, listening. He imagined a thousand duplicates of them. Castiel wished it had been Dean he saw that day, wearing gaudy Halloween trinkets and buying milk. The thought of him watching while Castiel went on air was far less morose.

"This guy is literally making your show," Anna said, tearing Castiel away from his musings. "At this rate, you may not even have to cancel your slot."

Castiel expected Balthazar to say something about the prospects of the new job, about what an upgrade it would be. Instead, he said, "You're hearing his name on the streets," as if saying it out loud would solidify it.

"It's a coincidence," Uriel said, frown in place.

"No, it's a sign."

Castiel wanted to tell Balthazar that he was being ridiculous, but Anna's head nodded and he felt severely outnumbered.

* * *

Dean wasn't about grab Sam by the shoulders, shake him, and announce that the little bastard had been right, but even he could not deny that ever since he began calling Midnight Matters, things had seemed brighter. It wasn't as if a curtain had been drawn back from his eyes or anything corny like that. Dean just felt… better.

"I swear you had better have a good reason for smiling yourself stupid and not working."

Dean's smile only widened when Bobby slapped the back of his head in a gesture of affection.

"I'm not smiling."

"You're smiling right now, Idjit."

Dean rolled his eyes and wiped the grease from his hands. He _had_ been working. It just so happened that Bobby caught him right as he closed the hood on his last car of the day.

"I'm just in a good mood is all," Dean said. When his hands were clean enough, he started filling out the paperwork for the owner. "Can't I be happy once in a while?"

"Is this about that radio flirtin' you've been doing?"

Dean drew the pen across the page too roughly, tearing it. Cursing himself, he grabbed another sheet and started over.

"Sammy tell you about that?"

"Jody, actually," Bobby said, checking over Dean's work on the car. "She's a big fan of… what did you call him? The angel on the radio?"

Dean's face twisted into a cross between shame and irritation.

"Don't make that face at me, or did you not know that you were _live_ while you were chattin' it up?"

Jody, the town sheriff, listened to Midnight Matters. Obviously if Sam listened to it, then there had to be others that did as well. It just never occurred to Dean that they could be so close.

"Don't get your panties knotted up over it. I'm just teasing."

"Are you gonna listen, too?" Dean asked. "Now that you know I'm on sometimes?"

"I _hope_ that means that you ain't gonna stick your tail between your legs now that people know you have feelings. You better call back," Bobby huffed, approving Dean's work and signing the document that allowed the owner to pick the vehicle up.

"You didn't answer my question."

"I don't answer to you, Idjit. You answer to me. Now get out of here before I have to pay you overtime."

* * *

There were a thousand and one things about his childhood that Castiel did not like to talk about. To him, the only way to ensure that not a single one of them was brought up was by distancing himself physically and emotionally from anyone who had anything to do with his upbringing. The one exception to his familial-induced isolation was Gabriel, but even then, Castiel kept their contact limited to the occasional text message.

He blamed Balthazar for Gabriel appearing outside of his apartment. The Brit could never keep anything to himself, let alone against a man as persuasive as his older brother. Well, one of his many older brothers.

"Cassie!" Gabriel shouted, both arms high in the air in both celebration and the desire to hug. Castiel would allow him neither.

"Why are you here?" he asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He could already feel a headache blooming.

"Can't I stop in to say hello once in a while? I swear, you keep moving and _conveniently_ forgetting to tell me your address. I'm hurt."

"Then perhaps you should see a doctor-" Castiel tried to close the door on him, but Gabriel was small and quick to duck under his arm. Castiel could not put into words the frustration he felt, and instead counted to ten.

He didn't get past six.

Castiel knew that the cream paint on the walls had begun to peel and the only photo he had up was one of himself that Balthazar had taken while they were school together. The frame was plastic.

"Wow. This place is even sadder than your last."

"Gabriel, please."

The man ignored Castiel and peeked into his bedroom.

"The only thing not a wreck is your bed. Have you been sleeping on the couch again?"

Castiel would have to tell Balthazar that he couldn't do the new show. He'd be too busy being in prison for murder.

* * *

_"You call a lot for your previous reluctance. Not that I'm complaining,"_ the man said. His voice was always far more pleasant to hear over the phone, knowing that he was addressing Dean personally.

"Yeah, well, Sam thinks I need to talk to you, or anyone."

It wasn't only that. Dean had been thinking about making the call since he got home. He watched the clock so often that it seemed to have stopped moving at some point. Dean had spent far too much of the afternoon pacing about it.

Besides, it was just a phone call.

_"Why?"_

"He wants me to share my feelings, you know, chick stuff."

_"Chick stuff?"_

Dean laughed. The man said the word 'chick' as if he spoke of actual birds.

"Yeah, no, I shouldn't have said that. Jo would kill me."

The line was silent for a beat longer than usual.

_"Who's Jo?"_

"She's just a friend. I told you I have those."

_Just a friend?_ Why did he say it like that?

_"You can have friends and be lonely, Dean. Are you lonely?"_

"Sometimes."

_"Are you lonely right now?"_

Dean sat on the couch with his feet propped on the coffee table. Sam wasn't there to yell at him for it because he was already in bed. There was no trash left out, no laundry on the floor, no open beer bottles… Dean could have sworn that the house didn't look lived in at all, just looked like a magazine ad.

"That would be kind of dickish since you're taking the time to talk to me and all."

_"You have a full audience, Dean."_

That was right. A full audience could be anyone. Dean might walk down the street in the morning only to have a gaggle of strangers point and stare at him and say _you're the guy on the radio who's sad and alone_.

"I'm positively delighted."

_"That, listeners, was a prime example of sarcasm, both a defense mechanism and the lowest form of wit." _

"Oh, shut up."

* * *

That night, before Castiel made a point to crawl into his bed, he saw the little blinking light that let him know he had a message.

Balthazar hadn't left one since before Dean was first on air.

"_Hey, Cassie. Call me when you get this, even if it's late. Crowley wants to see you."_


	4. A hundred cruel men together could not f

Sleepless in Lawrence, Kansas – chapter four – A hundred cruel men together could not fathom its burn

It was about the dead air. It _had_ to be.

Castiel hadn't had a meeting with the station head in years. It wasn't that Crowley was an incredibly busy man, it was just that he didn't feel the need to make pointless conversation. Most issues could be discussed electronically. The last time Castiel had been called in was when he pitched the idea for Midnight Matters in the first place.

If it wasn't about the dead air… Castiel didn't even want to think about the alternative.

Crowley's office was exactly as it had been the first time he had visited. There was not a speck of dust on his variety of knick-knacks from tumbled stones to Lucky Cats, although Castiel could not imagine the stout man taking the time to polish them. At the forefront of his desk, Crowley had a bobble-headed Doberman with anatomically incorrect incisors. The little beast nodded at Castiel in greeting.

"Have a seat," Crowley said from the door.

Castiel had thought for a second that the dog had spoken – well, he was just tired. Sleep did not come the night before, and with good reason.

"Yes, sir."

The chair was plush, unlike many other offices that stuck the guest in a cold, plastic contraption that hardly passed for a chair at all. Crowley didn't need such tactics to remind his employees who was in charge.

The man circled Castiel and propped himself against the mahogany desk, arms crossed.

"Why are you here, Castiel?" Crowley asked.

"You invited me."

The man let out a sharp laugh that was loud and made Castiel's pulse quicken.

"You're funny. Not in the traditional sense, no, but the way one might watch a mentally disabled goat leap around. Are you a mentally disabled goat, Castiel?"

Castiel never liked Crowley. He was six kinds of sleazy and his eyes were always bloodshot whenever he saw him. They almost looked entirely red.

"No, sir."

"Then why have you still not answered my question?" Crowley's voice was not dark. In fact, he may as well have been chatting about the weather. That's how he controlled his employees, through nonchalant intimidation.

"Because I do not know the answer," Castiel said, keeping his gaze.

One could hear a pin drop, it was so quiet. Then Crowley let out another laugh. It was like two cuts of steak slapping together and Castiel found himself wishing he never had to hear the man laugh again. Laughter should be warm, encompassing, like –

"I like you, Castiel. You stand up to me. I guess that means you're brave. Either that or you really _are_ stupid." Crowley walked around the desk to sit in his own chair, propping his elbows up and placing his chin in his hands. They were at eye level.

"Tell me about Winchester."

"Who?" Castiel asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Dean Winchester. From Lawrence, Kansas."

"How did you know-"

"Do you really think there is any information on this bloody earth that I can't get my hands on?" Crowley pulled out a file from his desk drawer. "Dean Winchester. Brother, Sam Winchester. Child of Mary and John Winchester. Mary, deceased." Crowley tossed the file at Castiel. "It's all in there… birth, school, and employment records, the whole shebang."

The file was plain, save '_Dean Winchester_' printed on its very center.

"Go ahead, read it. It's quite the story." Crowley spun in his chair, waiting for Castiel to oblige.

Instead, he slid the folder back.

"I'd rather not."

"Is this one of those… 'moral' things?" Crowley asked.

"The purpose of my show is to help others help themselves. It would be blatant disrespect to invade one's privacy this way, especially someone who has chosen to confide in me solely."

Crowley's eyebrows hit his hairline, and over the years that had become a more challenging task. "Suit yourself," he said, taking the folder back.

"Why bring Dean into this at all?" Castiel asked. Now he _really_ wasn't sure why he was there.

"The station isn't oblivious to these things, Castiel. Ever since Dean here," he tapped the file, "has started making his appearances, your viewing rate has sky-rocketed." Crowley pulled out another sheet from his drawer and handed it over.

It was like the one Castiel had shown Anna, but far different as well. Crowley also pulled out a list of what seemed to be URLs.

"What you have right now is your stats for last night's show alone. I don't think I need to point out that you had more listeners than any other night in your little 'Midnight Matters' tryst. Normally, I wouldn't have paid attention at all to your slot… too busy these days… but my secretary has taken a shining to tuning in, and she tells me all about it."

"Does she?"

"Yes. And according to her, the reason for your recent increase in views is one man by the alias of Lawrence, Kansas, known to others as 'Dean'."

Castiel had no idea the night before had such a turnout. He only ever checked the stats at the end of the week.

"And this," Crowley held out the list of URLs, "is every website where Lawrence, Kansas has been mentioned. Most of them are forums, but there are actually a decent number of transcriptions of his airtime. I must say they were... interesting to read."

Castiel didn't know where this was going.

"Why is it, do you think, that Dean has made such an impact on your ratings?"

"Uriel says it's because my listeners are all single and desperate."

"Uriel has a stick up his ass," Crowley barked. "And don't you forget, he's single, too."

"I won't, sir."

"Good. Now tell me why _you_ think he has."

Castiel was quiet. He fished around through the conversations he and Dean had shared, borderline intimate, but all he grasped at turned to smoke between his fingers. "I don't know."

"Hmn," Crowley mused. "I guess you have time to find out. I'm extending your slot by half an hour for an experimental time period. You will be paid overtime."

Castiel's jaw went slack.

"Don't just sit there, gaping. Go work on your show plans, or better yet, get some _sleep_. You look like a strong breeze could take you down for the count."

"I- Thank you, sir."

"By the way. That file on Mr. Winchester, it has a photo. In case you're interested."

Castiel's throat had gone completely dry.

"No, thank you."

Crowley pursed his lips.

"_Goodbye then_, Castiel."

Castiel shuffled out of the office in the most uncoordinated fashion. The door behind him wasn't even shut all the way before he had his phone out, punching in Balthazar's number.

His palms were clammy.

* * *

It escaped him before, the reason why people wanted to hear Dean speak. But not now, not when he switched the line to hear, "_Hey, it's Dean_," in the most casual manner.

They listened because they _wanted to hear Dean speak_. That was really all there was too it. His voice was a striking timbre and his honesty was probably the only honesty people heard in their entire day. With those three words, a simple greeting, Castiel thought about how much affection Dean had seeping out of him, for his brother, his friends, everyone.

Maybe people just needed to witness that. Maybe Castiel did, too.

"Hello, Dean," he said, heart racing. He wondered if a half an hour more would even be enough to _begin_ capturing the stranger's essence. "It's good to hear from you." His voice had cracked.

"_I'm touched. Really._"

"How are things?"

_"I can't complain. I mean, I'm alive, aren't I?"_

"Yes. Yes you are."

They talked about nothing, but managed to eat up airtime like a passing fancy. Castiel would ask a question, Dean would skirt around the answer, make a joke, and Castiel would try again. Sometimes, he wondered if Dean knew how strongly his emotions filtered through the line. They were tangible.

Castiel covered his face with his palms and pressed until he could feel his eyes pulsing. He hoped that the pressure would ease their sting.

* * *

"Where exactly in Lawrence does Dean live?" Anna asked. Her hair had been let down and her lap was covered in torn open envelopes. She was out of place on Castiel's living room floor. She and Balthazar had stopped by (unannounced and unwelcome) with a tote bag of letters. They forced their way in, Anna taking the floor and Balthazar digging through the kitchen cabinets in search of tea.

"I don't have tea."

"Of course you do. I bought you some for your birthday and I know you didn't drink it. Where is it?"

"Lawrence isn't _huge_, but it'd be hard to find one guy if you didn't know where to start," Anna said.

Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose, certain that he'd had far too many visitors for the month already, and it was still early.

"Why do you need to find him?" Castiel asked. Obviously Crowley had kept his accumulation of information a secret. "What good would that do anyone?"

"I don't know, maybe because about two hundred of these fan letters are asking for his address and the other two hundred gushing about how 'hot' he sounds," Anna said, holding three up at once to examine.

"Give me that." Castiel snatched one from her and sure enough, "_Is it possible for us to find out where or how we might be able to contact Dean_?" he read. "_I would love to send him a letter, just to let him know that we're listening and if he ever feels lonely, he shouldn't_." Castiel's scowl overtook his entire face. "Who sends these?"

"Everyone, apparently," Balthazar said. He had two steaming mugs of tea and Castiel didn't even want to know how he managed to find it.

"It's invasive, giving out someone's address," Castiel said, tossing the letter on the floor. "Don't people _realize _that?"

"Don't _you_ want to know?" Anna asked.

Castiel wanted to tell her about Crowley's file, about how he had turned away from it. Yes, he wanted to know, wanted to see the photo that sat tucked away in its manila blanket. But he chose not to, because what would Dean think of him then?

Dean _trusted_ him.

"No," he lied.

Balthazar handed Anna a mug and joined her. They sorted through the numerous letters, setting aside the ones that weren't Dean-centric.

There were four.

"Should we send out a response?" Balthazar asked.

"No."

"They're your viewers, Castiel. You can't just ignore them." Anna's face twisted into a grimace.

"I know. You're right."

"So what are you going to do?"

Castiel picked up the paper he had discarded and smoothed out the wrinkles from where his fingers had squeezed.

* * *

"_I would like to thank my listeners for all of the mail you have sent me. I have taken the time to read each and every one of them, and I must say they all seemed to share a common factor. The truth is, you know as much about Dean as I do. I know that he is a good man who cares deeply for his brother. I know that he sometimes feels alone. But, I also know that he is strong, and that he is going to be okay."_

Dean had worked a double shift and, when he got home, collapsed into bed. He didn't fall asleep so much as cease to be awake anymore. Midnight Matters went on without him, and he didn't catch a word.

* * *

It was grocery day. Sam would leave a list on the fridge for Dean and Dean would go out and pick up whatever it was they needed for the week.

Sam did not leave a list that day. He would not leave a list ever again. Sam was leaving.

Dean walked up and down each aisle, reading the backs of stroganoff boxes and scowling when he didn't understand the majority of what he was seeing. When he finally found one that didn't have more than twelve unidentifiable ingredients, Dean shrugged and tossed it in the basket.

It landed by the eggs and deodorant.

Dean didn't like that there was no list. Sam would even write in parenthesis beside the ingredients what they would be useful for and always organized the list in order of item placement at the market. Sometimes, there were doodles of faces or messages for Dean, like _don't be dumb, buy off-brand_ and those had guided him for as long as he could remember.

Without it, Dean was just wandering.

"Excuse me?"

Dean turned toward the voice.

"I can't seem to reach something, could you maybe help me out?"

The woman had large, caramel curls and tan skin. She was beautiful, but there was a slyness in her stare that unsettled Dean.

"Sure," he said, reaching up to fetch what she pointed to. "It pays to be tall, sometimes."

The woman's eyes widened a fraction, taking the box. "What's your name?" she asked, discarding it in her cart.

"Dean. Dean Winchester."

"I'm Bela Talbot," she said, holding out her hand. Dean was a bit reluctant, but shook it none the less. Her grip was tighter than his, and that said something. "It's nice to meet you, Dean. Can I return the favor by maybe, I don't know, buying you a drink?"

"It wasn't much of a favor," Dean said. "And as tempting as that may be, I have to be somewhere tonight."

_The final supper_, Dean thought with bitterness. He and Sam would sit across from each other and pretend that nothing was wrong, that nothing was going to change.

"What a shame. I'm just passing through, so by tomorrow I'll be gone."

"It is a shame," Dean said, turning his basket and preparing to walk away.

"You sure you won't reconsider?" Bela asked, running a hand through her hair. If she had been any other woman, or if it had been any other night, he would have, but he was too old to be stirring up trouble.

"I'm certain."

"Thank you again, Dean Winchester. I hope that this is not the last time we meet."

Dean hoped that it _was_. Bela Talbot spelled out trouble in the way she raised an eyebrow, tossed her hair, and walked off with a heavy sway in her hips. Dean looked at the three measly items in his cart and frowned. He would be there for a while.

* * *

Castiel thought that Dean wasn't going to call. He didn't expect him to call _every_ night, but the disappointment was still there, rocking like a pendulum in his stomach, stirring it.

But then Dean did call.

_"It's Dean_."

"Hello, Dean. A bit later than usual, the shows already about over. Are you okay?" Castiel asked. Dean did not sound like himself.

_"Sam's gone. He left this afternoon. He doesn't start officially until the spring semester, but he wanted to get an apartment and settle in. I don't want to keep you, I just need a distraction is all."_

Castiel closed his eyes, the sound of Dean's distress was too much. Hadn't he been the one to say that separation was just a part of life? Where had that reassurance gone? Castiel wanted to take every ounce of Dean's suffering and place it upon his own shoulders, like how Atlas carried the world.

The pain of a righteous soul ran deep. A hundred cruel men together could not fathom its burn.

No one would ever convince Castiel that Dean was not a righteous soul, and if he needed a distraction… Castiel could be that.

"How old are you, Dean?" he asked, clearing his throat.

_"What?"_

"How old are you?"

_"Twenty-three."_

Still so young.

"What do you do for a living?"

Dean cleared his throat, Castiel wondered if he was fighting back something stronger. _"I work at my uncle's auto shop. Well, he's not really my uncle, but he's always been there and family don't end with blood."_

"Say that again, Dean. About family."

_"Family don't end with blood?"_

Dean would be okay. Dean was strong. As long as Castiel kept telling himself that, things would turn out fine.

"You heard it here, dear listeners. Family don't end with blood. That's something worth living by."

* * *

Loss was universal, and it transcended eighteen hundred miles to settle in Castiel's stomach as he lay on his couch. He'd looked the number up on his phone, amazed at how powerfully he felt it despite the distance. It was like the aftermath of vomiting. His stomach ached from the newfound absence, and only ached harder when he imagined how Dean must have felt.

Castiel had always been alone, but Dean… Dean was the sort of person, Castiel decided, that never deserved to be alone.

It wouldn't be difficult to get the file from Crowley, to find Dean's number and for the first time, be the one to call him.

He wouldn't. Castiel was just the guy on the radio. Anonymity was his vessel, and if he were to abandon that, he could lose Dean.

He turned the TV on.


	5. It eats at you, because you care

Sleepless in Lawrence, Kansas – chapter five – It eats at you, because you care

Castiel loved Gabriel. In fact, he loved him so much that he would be certain to adorn his casket with hundreds of flowers and write a eulogy swimming with analogies of childhood pranks. Like the time he had convinced Castiel that he was going to die because his tongue had turned blue after eating all the frosting off of a batman cake. Yes, Castiel loved Gabriel. Who wouldn't?

A humorless, stick in the mud, that's who.

"You have five seconds to vacate my apartment or I will cut off all of your hair."

"Seriously, Cassie? The hair? How old are you?" Gabriel asked, one leg crossed at his knee and an arm slung over a tanned woman beside him. Her lipstick was so pristine that Castiel immediately decided not to trust her, never mind that she and Gabriel and her piles of curly black hair were draped audaciously across _his_ couch.

"It seems you two have some unresolved issues," she said, leaning close to Gabriel and, _God_, placing a kiss below his ear. "Should I leave you to it?"

"Aw, but I wanted to suck face some more."

"In due time." The woman stood up. She was as tall as Castiel in her four inch stilettos.

"How _is_ your lipstick still intact if you've been _sucking face_ all evening?" Castiel asked, avoiding direct eye contact. She was... a force.

"It's called lip stain, sweetie. Look it up."

He held the door open, "No. No, I really don't think I will," and closed it behind her.

"I'm telling you, Kali just might be the one," Gabriel said, sighing and crossing his arms at the back of his neck.

"Is that a joke?"

"True love, Cassie. It's when two people meet each other's eyes and you feel like you're a thousand feet in the air. You look at her, she has some stupid little thing like a beauty mark or a dimple that you love unreasonably, and her gaze says, _it's you_."

"That," Castiel said, taking his brother's arm and hoisting him off of the couch, "is too cheesy, even for my show." He led him to the door. "Now, leave me so I can be lonely by myself."

"There is seriously something wrong with… well, everything you just said."

"Goodnight, Gabriel."

Castiel loved Gabriel, but the man was just a whole different kind of crazy and Castiel didn't have time for that. He had a western to not really pay attention to, but leave on all the same, and he had Dean to think about. He'd think about him while he washed the three dirty plates on the counter and while he brushed his teeth before bed. Even when the overhead light above the sink flickered out, Castiel kept brushing, still thinking about him.

It wasn't as though he had any strings of particular thoughts on the man, simply reminded himself of the stranger's existence through a throbbing pang in his stomach.

That seemed to count for something.

* * *

"How are things at home, Dean?" Castiel asked, sipping at his coffee. It was hot, thankfully. Castiel's day had been so strenuous that he didn't know what he would do if even his damn coffee had been subpar. At least now he was seated in his studio with Dean on the line and maybe that meant things were looking up. "Is it quiet?"

"_Straight to the point, as usual. Not incredibly. I keep your show on at night so the house feels a little more lived in. I'm never here during the day so it's just the nights."_

"Do you have a radio by your bed?" Castiel asked.

Dean let out a heavy cough.

_"Everyone does."_

It was, daresay, cute how flustered the man could get over a simple comment. At least Castiel thought he was flustered… maybe _he_ was the one getting embarrassed about it. Castiel's ears _were_ warm. But they always were when he was speaking to Dean.

"Is that where you listen to my show?" Was he stirring his coffee with his pinkie? That was normal, right?

_"Well, don't make it sound weird or anything."_

Castiel should get an award for his ability to keep cool on air because his limbs seemed to thrash of their own accord and knock his cup over, right into his lap. Thankfully by then, the coffee had cooled to a lukewarm. "I will do my best," he said, scowling at his lap.

It could have been worse.

_"How's the home life?_"

"Funny, it's my job to ask _you_ that."

"_Well, who asks you?_"

Castiel almost said, _no one_, but lately it seemed that all of his acquaintances had been barreling into his life. Gabriel never visited and now, he was there once a week. Even Anna and Balthazar kept making promises to drop by again and that Castiel should _buy more tea, one variety is boring_. Instead, Castiel said, "I have friends."

"_You can have friends and still be lonely_."

"Did you just throw my own words back at me?" Castiel asked. His day had been long, irritating even, and his pants were soaked with rapidly cooling coffee, but he still laughed. "You assbutt."

"_Did you just call me an _assbutt_?"_

They were both laughing, then. Above Castiel, the sky was black with just a spatter of stars. The sky overhead of Dean was much the same. It was a blanket that spread across America, wrapping them up together.

* * *

The only thing Dean actually liked about hanging up with the man on the radio, was hearing him bid his listeners goodnight. It was the only time Dean ever heard anyone say _goodnight_.

There was a time when his mother had, back when he was too young to appreciate it. His father had, too, for a few years, but soon that stopped as well. Then it was just Dean, tucking Sam in and telling _him_ goodnight.

There was something special about it. If Dean thought about it too much, he'd complain that it wasn't even a proper sentence, but a fraction of a statement. He'd say that people who spent too much time worrying over someone saying _goodnight_ had nothing more important to worry about. It was wrong and he knew that, but he'd say it anyway.

When the man on the radio said, "_Thank you for listening, and goodnight,"_ Dean made to switch it off and try to get some sleep. Before he could, the voice continued, "_And goodnight, Dean_."

* * *

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

_"I'm sorry, what?"_ the man asked.

"Well, you said earlier that 'love' isn't a human privilege. You said that we are entitled to it, even if we think we do not deserve it. Are you saying that others are obligated to love us? What does your girlfriend think of that?" Dean asked. He had downed four beers already.

"_I believe that we are born to be loved. First by our parental figures, our siblings, our families, and then by those that come to be around us. Nobody is obligated to love us, but they will, whether they want to or not."_

"Hmn,"

"_And no, I am not in a relationship._"

"Probably because you're always up all night talking to crazy people," Dean said. The house was gaping open. Dean had torn down Sam's posters and rolled them up, each like a cigarette, to shove under the couch. For dinner, he had eaten a boiled hotdog. "Like me."

"_I would not go so far as to call you crazy, just complicated_."

"I'm complicated?"

"_You are being complicated."_

"In your show you said that love is universal, but is it really? Don't people just pick a few others, chose to love them, and not give a shit about anyone else? Isn't easy for them to abandon others?"

"_You don't like it when I talk about love_," the man said. He sounded sad, his voice dropping off at the word _love_. "_But, Dean, surely you've never abandoned anyone?_"

"Of course not!"

"_Just because we do not dote on someone or shower them with gifts does not mean that we do not love them nor that we have abandoned them. Love, sometimes, is just being there. Listening. Indifference is easier than caring, I'll give you that. You could walk away and forget. But you know what, Dean?"_

"What?"

"_You never do forget. You go home and you think about all the things that you could have done differently. It eats at you, because you care. What you associate with abandonment, is nothing but the fear to make a change. We do care, we just don't know what we're supposed to do."_

Dean's bottle was empty again, but instead of fetching another, he stared at the accumulated beads of precipitation along its neck and dared them to fall.

"_I'm trying, Dean_."

"I know. I know you are." He was being a brat. The man on the radio didn't need Dean lashing out at him, no one did. Dean's problems were his own, and it was selfish to get angry at the only person who ever listened and never asked for anything in return.

"_It's okay to be upset, Dean. To be upset is to be human."_

"Can I call again tomorrow? Or are you finally tired of putting up with me?"

"_You may call whenever you like."_

Dean wanted to tell him, _no, stop being so nice to me_, but he needed to be selfish.

* * *

The next night, Dean leaned against the kitchen counter, cleaning it with a rag soaked in bleach. He liked the smell, and Dean was a stress-cleaner. He shouldn't have been so stressed. In three hours, the man on the radio would be back and he would talk about something Dean never thought about, but probably should. He had already washed every dish, even cleaned the dust from the wine glasses, and after he was finished in the kitchen he would move to the bathroom.

Dean was becoming progressively more excited each night that he planned to call Midnight Matters. He _had _to plan because Dean had learned in his life that nothing came of serendipity but a stern lashing from his father. Dean was certain that if the man from the radio appeared beside him and said in that tone of his, _hello, Dean_, he just might die of an early heart attack.

No surprises.

Dean probably jumped four feet in the air when the doorbell rang.

"Who the hell can that possibly be?" Dean asked himself, slapping the wet rag into the sink and unrolling his sleeves. Nobody visited him. It was Sam who was the socialite and Dean, well, the mailman didn't come that late.

When he opened the door and looked at the person that stood on his porch, drenched from the sprinkles of November rain, Dean closed his eyes and sighed.

"What the hell do you want?"

* * *

"He hasn't called in six days, Gabriel," Castiel said, curling deeper into the backboard of his couch. In the kitchen, his brother scowled at the pot of brewing coffee and wondered if there was enough sugar in the apartment to negate how strongly Castiel liked to make it. "It's a sign!"

Gabriel rolled his eyes for the fifth time in the hour. "Tut tut, you don't believe in signs," he said, pouring two cups. "You never have. When we were little and that lighting storm blew out the electricity in our house, nobody else's, and then Dad left us, you thought that was a coincidence."

"Don't talk about dad," Castiel said. "And stop putting so much sugar. You're going to get sick."

"Stop trying to be everybody's parent," Gabriel said, handing him the mug. "You've been doing is to all of us for years. It's condescending."

"Why?"

"Because you're the baby, Cassie. We should be taking care of you."

"The day Michael wants to come down here and tuck me in, tell him not to."

Gabriel dragged his brother's feet from the end of the couch and settled himself there, against Castiel's protests. "Are you really going to lie down and mope all day over Dean-o?"

"I'm not moping."

"I'm certain that I could not find a more literal example of moping than you, right now, on this damn couch. Dean will call back."

"He's been attracting a lot of attention. It might be too much for him," Castiel said, _not whined_, and set his untouched cup on the coffee table. He could not muster the will to drink it.

"You are so sad."

"Be quiet, Gabriel." Even with his brother there, Castiel felt Dean's absence like a slug to the gut. Dean had been angry the last time he had called. What if he never called again, and the last time Castiel ever spoke to Dean, it was while butting heads? "I'm in turmoil."

"Well, how about I spike that drink or yours and we can talk about it?"

Castiel nodded.

* * *

It was the same every night. Castiel would chatter about something that was bound to be haunting someone, somewhere, but his heart wasn't in it. He kept wondering if Dean would call… hoping that he would. By the time the calling hour came around, he had convinced himself that that would be the night.

Dean didn't call.

_"Hello,"_ a man said.

"What's your name, sir?" Castiel asked.

_"Chuck, I'm Chuck."_

"It's nice to have you, Chuck." Did his disappointment show? The last thing Castiel wanted was to put off his other listeners for his own petty… feelings.

_"Thanks. I just wanted Lawrence, Kansas to know that, well, it seems hard now but things are gonna get better."_

Castiel felt a lump form in his throat. "That's kind of you," he choked out.

_"They have to get better."_

"Thank you, Chuck."

Castiel had two other callers that night, but neither of them were Dean. As another show came to a close, Castiel stared at his red _On Air_ sign and felt the pang return to his stomach.

"That will conclude our show for tonight. And remember, if you're listening Lawrence, Kansas, goodnight. Sleep well."

He switched it off and dropped his coffee in the trash.


	6. The cup whispered, drink me

Sleepless in Lawrence, Kansas – chapter six – The cup whispered, _drink me._

When Dean was nine years old, his father taught him how to hold a rifle. It was heavy, and the kickback knocked one of Dean's last baby teeth out, but it was the only time he could remember his father's presence in his life being constant. John would line up empty beer cans from the kitchen on the fence at Bobby's auto shop and they wouldn't go home until Dean had pegged every one of them.

John was always drinking, but Dean figured that as long as he was the one doing all the shooting, things would be okay.

John never taught Sam how to shoot because by the time Sam was old enough, John had taken a permanent residence on the couch. He'd throw his weight into the corner until it began to break beneath his inebriation. He stayed parked there for years, until he and Sam had it out and John got up and walked away.

Dean had decided then and there that he couldn't rely on his father. When Sam would come to Dean with big, red eyes and say, "It's my fault he left," Dean would reply, "No, it's his fault he left," and that would be that.

Things were hard at first, but thanks to Bobby, Dean was able to keep up with the bills. Sam wanted to help, too, but Dean was adamant that he focus on school. That was four years ago.

When John had shown up on Dean's doorstep, his hair unruly and his breath rancid with liqour, Dean was tempted to shut the door. He didn't, but only because he remembered the rifle.

It had taken less than an hour for Dean to kick him back out. Even a week later, Dean laid in his bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to block out the things that had been said. Things like _You're living in your own world, Dean, you're as foolish as your brother_ and _I'm trying, Dad_.

"_A bond is the thread that ties us all together,"_ the man on the radio said from Dean's nightstand._ "Often it hangs loosely between us so we don't realize it's there. But as we begin to grow apart, the string grows tight. It is tested and we are forced to acknowledge it. But draw it too tightly and it becomes weak and can break._"

Dean pulled the blanket up to shield his eyes from the light that filtered through the window from the neighbor's yard.

_"But sometimes a bond is so strong that it cannot be weathered. This profound bond is always there, even when you don't see it. Even when it's been stretched and abused, it withstands. You, too, must withstand._"

Dean shut the radio off.

* * *

"_Hi, my name is Charlie and I'm from Topeka, Kansas." _

"Hello Charlie, how can I help you tonight?" Castiel asked.

Castiel's pep had been steadily draining over the course of the week. He had been avoiding Balthazar for days. aAfter Dean's disappearance, he began to go on about the new show with a newfound vigor. Castiel didn't want to hear about it, he still had several months before he had to make a decision.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Not to mention Gabriel had not only brought Kali over to his place three times, but somehow convinced him to join them for lunch. If there was one thing Castiel did not want to do, it was watch his brother sweet talk some woman while he was trying to eat. The pasta quickly lost its appeal.

It was a tough week.

"_I was just wondering what happened to Lawrence, Kansas?"_ Charlie asked._ "He hasn't called in a while. Do you think he's alright?"_

It was the third call he had received about Dean, but Castiel couldn't blame them. Every concern that was voiced he shared whole-heartedly.

"He is going through changes in his life that make his silence understandable. While I do not wish to lose him as a listener, I also hope that he is getting plenty of sleep in his absence."

_"It's not just me. A lot of the forum members miss him, too. I just thought he should know."_

"If you're listening, Lawrence, Kansas," Castiel rubbed his thumbs against his eyes, "you are missed. Goodnight. Sleep well."

* * *

"I think it's time you get over this little crush of yours," Gabriel said, setting two coffees on the cafe table.

"Excuse me?"

"You have been moping for nine days now. Nine. I've been counting. I'm a good brother like that."

Castiel scowled, as he did often as of late, and took an angry sip. It burned his tongue, but he didn't flinch, didn't show weakness. "You're crazy," he said, "I do not have a crush on Dean. How would you feel if your friend up and vanished out of nowhere after promising to get in touch?"

"I'd feel like I'd been lied to and that they're a douche anyway," Gabriel said. "Besides, who said you two were friends?"

When Gabriel was fourteen, Lucifer, their second oldest brother, was the closest thing he had to a friend. When Lucifer turned nineteen, with a fraying green backpack slung over one shoulder, he walked out the door without looking back and never even said goodbye to Gabriel, who watched from the window.

"I thought that we were. Maybe he didn't."

"That's right. Maybe he didn't. You don't need that in your life."

Dean's voice was like tumbling rocks. Castiel felt that they could buff out his edges given time. He thought he had time.

"Maybe he died. What if his car swerved off a road and into a ditch and nobody saw him in time to save him and he died," Castiel said, "all alone."

"You've gone loco coacoa." Gabriel eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes soft. He looked at his baby brother and estimated how many coffees it would take for him to get over everything.

Too many.

"I'll never know. No one will tell me."

"What about the brother? Surely he would tell you if something tragic happened."

"Why would he?" Castiel asked, burying his nails into the soft Styrofoam of his cup. "I'm just the guy on the radio."

* * *

_"What the hell are you doing?"_

Dean winced and drew back from the screech of the phone. "Inside voice, Sam!" he snapped.

_"Have you been listening to Midnight Matters?_"

Dean looked at his empty nightstand, the radio shoved under his bed. "No."

_"So you aren't aware that for the past week not only has your friend been giving you shout-outs but other listeners have been calling in to ask about you."_

"What? No way," Dean said. "And what makes you think that we're friends? I barely know the guy. I don't even know his name!"

_"So?"_

"I don't know his day job or his favorite color or if he likes movies. I don't know jack about the guy."

_"Listen to me, Dean. I know that friends have been hard to come by-"_

"Sam-"

"_No. Just listen to me."_

Dean walked to the kitchen, turning on the lights despite the sun still filtering in through the curtains. The house felt too dim.

_"I know that friends have been hard to come by. Hell, you've been working your whole life, so no one's surprised that you haven't had any real relationships._"

"I told the Midnight Matters guy, I'm telling you, I _have_ friends."

_"Then maybe you need something more."_ Sam's voice hadn't been so sharp since the day their dad left. Even sharper was the click on the line signaling he had hung up.

Dean stood with the phone tucked against his shoulder and stared at the fridge. It was littered with pictures – of their mother, of them together…. There was even one of John. That was it. Dean didn't have any pictures from parties or from hanging out with friends. He didn't even have a picture of Jo, whom he would consider his best friend.

If he had to pick.

Every relationship he had ever been in had become a spiraling dive into self destruction. Girls that were pretty and smooth and kind that he couldn't treat right… dates that ended early or badly or with stupid decisions that could be used to catalogue his decent into adulthood. Like a time stamp.

He opened a bottle of whiskey and skipped the tumbler, his hand trembling around the bottle's neck.

Dean didn't like to think about it because when he did, it occurred to him that he had ruined his fair share of relationships, if not all of them. That just made him drink more, and when he drank, the alcohol churned his stomach and buried all the bad feelings that he had brought up.

* * *

Life had a way of reassuring its victims. It was easy to sit at a desk, stare blankly at your hands and wonder why you have no control over anything. Forrest Gump said that life was like a box of chocolates, but he never said it was like the two dollar Russell Stovers where even the pieces you _should_ like on principle, fall short. Castiel had been stewing for a while. In his numerous thought processes, the idea that Dean had moved on crept over him like frost bite.

He even splashed cream and sugar and liquor in his usually plain black coffee. The cup whispered, _drink me._

"You're live on Midnight Matters, to whom do I owe the pleasure?" Castiel asked, chin resting on one hand and gaze drooping.

_"Hi… It's me. I mean, it's Dean." _

Castiel closed his eyes, repeating to himself _it's Dean, It's Dean._ He took a deep breath and swallowed, his limbs shook with excitement, terror, relief, _something_.

"Hello, Dean," he whispered, concerned for the inflection of his voice. It only wavered, thankfully.

_"I'm sorry I haven't called. I've been in a bit of a rut."_

Castiel understood that. He understood standing in front of an open fridge and finding nothing to satisfy. "How are things now?"

_"Better. Much better. Sam's adjusted to California already. He still listens to your show. He told me about the… the calls and stuff."_

"Have you been listening?" Castiel asked.

_"Like I said, I've been in a rut." _

"Isn't it quiet over there?" Castiel's voice had dropped back into a whisper. There was a performing aspect about his shows, his topics, but that all crumbled away. Maybe it was the alcohol or the loneliness that threatened him each time he answered the phone and it wasn't Dean's voice that he heard.

_"Of course it's quiet, I just don't see how filling up all the empty space with a radio show is gonna help." _

"The strangest of things can be therapeutic."

_"Have you been talking to Sam? I don't need therapy."_

Castiel smiled. "No, your brother has not called since our first encounter, and who would not benefit from a bit of therapy?"

_"Well, if you're listening to this, Sam, dick off,"_ Dean snapped.

"Can you tell me why you've been in a rut, Dean?" Castiel asked.

Dean was silent for a moment. "_Well, it's kind of hard to explain without spilling my guts to the insomniacs of America." _

"Insomniacs make great listeners, they have little other choice."

Dean laughed. Castiel hadn't heard Dean outright laugh in weeks. The sound was much missed, but it stopped all too soon.

"_It's just that my dad stopped by."_

Various names flashed across Castiel's mind. Jo, Ellen, Sam… "I wasn't aware he was still in the picture."

_"He's not, I guess that why it got me down, you know? Sometimes when people are gone long enough, it's best for them to stay gone."_

"Did you tell him that?"

_"Sort of."_

"Sort of?"

_"I threw him out. He and Sammy, well, they never really got along, you know? But Sam's my number one. If he doesn't want anything to do with Sam then he doesn't want anything to do with me. We're a package deal. He can't just wait for Sam to leave and then try to get chummy with me again, that's not alright."_

Castiel thought back on his own father who had been swept away by a storm. He was young then, and didn't remember much of what his father would say except _be good._ He didn't know what that meant. He asked Gabriel, who told him being good was overrated. He asked Michael, who told him to wash his hands of sin. Castiel even asked himself when he looked in the mirror at his bloodshot eyes and the wrinkles that came early.

"No, Dean," he murmured, "it's not."

"_It's funny."_

"Hmn?"

_"I have no idea what your name is."_

It almost fell right out of his mouth. It would have had he not been taking the last long sip of his drink. It would be so easy to just tell him.

"You've said for yourself that I'm sort of an angel. A name is just a detail."

_"I'm new to this show, so this is probably a stupid question, but, do any of your listeners know your name?"_

"This show isn't about me."

_"None then? What do you look like?"_ Dean asked.

Castiel looked down at his wrinkled, button-up and grimaced.

"Irrelevant."

_"Humor me?"_ Dean's voice felt warm again. Castiel would do what he could to keep it that way.

"I'm six feet tall. My eyes are blue. I weigh one hundred and seventy-two pounds…"

_"Those are some pretty boring details."_

Alas, I am a pretty boring person. What about you, Dean? Our listeners are probably desperate to know what you look like.

_"Isn't it obvious?"_ Dean teased._ "I'm devilishly handsome_."

"You heard him, listeners, Dean of Lawrence, Kansas is both clever and attractive. Beware, lest you fall prey to his charms."

_"Do you think they'll heed your warning?"_

Castiel thought about the past week and a half, of each night spent wishing he could hear even a single word from the stranger in Kansas. He thought about the encroaching dread of loss. Mostly, he thought about the way Dean talked about Sam, and the way Dean talked about love, and how different the two subjects sounded when they came from his mouth, although not being very different at all. 

"It's probably already too late," Castiel said, his throat dry. "You've been listening to Midnight Matters and the very much missed voice of Lawrence, Kansas. Sweet dreams, America. Sweet dreams, Dean. Remember, you are not alone. You are never alone."

He didn't want to hang up, but he had to.


	7. Her hair wasn't the only thing

Sleepless in Lawrence, Kansas – chapter seven – Her hair wasn't the only thing that changed

"It just sucks to feel so… alone," Dean said, the phone jammed into the crevice of his neck. In his arm he held a mixing bowl and beat at it briskly. "I mean, I know I'm not _really_ alone, but God, it feels like it sometimes in this house. It used to be full, a long time ago."

A tray of stuffing sat on the counter, wrapped in cellophane. Dean poured the whipped, orange contents of his bowl into the pie crust beside it. It settled in its nest perfectly, not a drop spilled.

"Now it's just me."

_"Life changes slowly. By the time we notice, it is often too late._"

"Thanks. That's what I needed to hear," Dean said, rolling his eyes.

"_I apologize. Is Sam not returning for Thanksgiving?_" the man asked. The clock on the wall flickered _3:10_. The kitchen was warm with the smell of meat and sugar. _"I thought that he would_."

"I did, too. He met some girl. Figures. Name's Jessica. She invited him and a few others to a cabin or something. It's pretty suspicious if you ask me," Dean said, slipping the pumpkin pie into the oven. "Who knows what they are up to?"

_"Remember, Dean, Sam is an adult and is perfectly capable of making responsible decisions. Besides, he hardly seems like the type to get into any trouble_."

"Hah. So even you can tell he's just a big nerd."

_"Yes. Yes, I can._"

Dean's cackle was sharp and he hoped to the universe itself that Sam hadn't given up his old habits and was listening. Perhaps even alongside the lot of his friends. But then again, what would he say? _Hey, you hear that guy griping on the radio? That's my brother!_ In fact, Dean wasn't sure if Sam ever really mentioned him at all.

_"Do you have any plans?"_ the man asked.

"I'm making a few dishes right now to take over to Bobby's tomorrow."

_"That's nice of you. Will you be joining them for dinner?"_

"I'll probably just stop by. It's him and Jody's first holiday together and I don't want to intrude."

_"Did they say anything to imply that your presence would be an intrusion?"_

Dean stared at the stack of dishes wrapped and ready to take on over. "No."

_"Dean, please tell me you aren't planning to just be alone for Thanksgiving?"_

Dean was quiet.

"_Dean?_"

* * *

Bobby's house was a landmark in Dean's upbringing. The surplus of books, dirty dishes, and whiskey bottles had always been welcoming. But on Thanksgiving, when Dean arrived with several trays of food, something was… off.

"Hello, Dean. Please come in," Jody said, her hair shorter than he remembered. Every time Dean saw her, she trimmed a bit more off.

Her hair wasn't the only thing that changed. The books that normally lay scattered across the room had all been filed away in a brand new dresser. Those that did not fit had been stacked atop it according to size. The whiskey bottles were gone from the coffee table and the coffee table itself had been moved across the room. The living area seemed almost twice as large.

"Wow. You really cleaned up," Dean said, an eyebrow raised and his fists clenching and unclenching.

"You got a problem with how I usually keep it?" Bobby asked in his typical, gruff voice. He rested against the doorframe of the kitchen, sleeves rolled up and arms crossed. His wrinkled and calloused hands stood out against his plum button-up and slicked-back hair. "Cause you can walk your butt right back out."

"Hey, Bobby." Jody took the trays from Dean, freeing his hands to go in for a hug. Bobby's arms around him squeezed much tighter than usual and Dean could not help but think he must have looked particularly pathetic. "Were you just doing dishes?"

"Shut it, you Idjit, unless you want to eat out of the dog bowl."

"You don't have a dog."

"Doesn't mean I don't have a dog bowl."

"Alright, you two," Jody interrupted, placing the tray on the counter and unwrapping it. The house already smelled of warm turkey and lit candles, but the smell of pumpkin pie and stuffing settled in nicely. "Are you going to help me set the table or am I gonna have to do everything myself?"

"Bossy," Bobby said beneath his breath. He was out of the kitchen before Jody finished raising her serving spoon at him. Dean was right beside him.

"Things have changed around here," he said, helping his long-time father figure adjust the cloth over the old, nicked table Bobby had owned for years. Sitting atop was a lit candle.

"Change isn't always a bad thing, Dean," Bobby said. "It can be revitalizing, especially for my old bones." Bobby leaned over to peek back into the kitchen, where Jody had just pulled out three beers.

Dean followed his gaze. "Revitalizing. Gross." He ducked away from the hand that swung at him, and smiled. "I'm happy for you, really."

Jody joined them, beers in her arms.

"No need for that," Dean said when she held one out to him. "I was just dropping the food off. I'm not staying."

"Excuse me?" she said, eyebrows hitting her hairline. "I think I misheard you."

"There must be something up with my ears, too, because I swear you just said you weren't staying," Bobby said, scowling and making a spectacle of picking at his ear with his pinkie finger.

"Come on, you guys. You don't want me here. You're gonna have your nice little dinner with your candle and I don't want to intrude on that."

Jody's expression stayed frozen as she walked to the table, picked the candle off of it, and blew it out.

"I knew it was too tacky," she said, popping a beer open and placing it in front of Dean. "Get seated, we don't want the food getting cold."Jody walked back into the kitchen.

"But I'm not-"

"Trust me, boy, you lost this argument the moment you walked in the door," Bobby said. He thumped Dean's back and smiled. Dean had never noticed how many crinkles there were at the corners of his eyes. Maybe he just hadn't been paying attention.

* * *

Before going to the studio for the night, Castiel stopped by his apartment in hopes to sit on his couch and watch terrible TV for half an hour. Instead, he found his spot occupied by his short but enthusiastic brother. The man had a towel thrown over him as a blanket and made the same chirping noises in his sleep that Castiel remembered from when the Novak's still shared a house.

Castiel closed his eyes and let out an exaggerated, loud sigh. When Gabriel did not stir, he decided waking the man would prove far more troublesome than letting him sleep.

He didn't turn on any lights, just opened the fridge and let it illuminate. Beside his array of water bottles, Castiel found a plate wrapped in tinfoil with his name scrawled on it in sharpie. He took the foreign object out and, placing it on the counter, unwrapped it.

Inside was three slices of turkey breast, a scoop of stuffing, mashed potatoes, yams, broccoli with rice and cheese, cranberry sauce, and a white roll. The food was bursting over the plate's edges, and although cold, still smelled of a welcoming evening.

Anna and Balthazar had both wished Castiel a happy Thanksgiving over a shared lunch that afternoon. It was about all the celebration Castiel needed. He didn't know how Gabriel did it, but as he warmed up the feast, Castiel thought to himself, _it's good to have family_.

The phone in his pocket buzzed over the gentle hum of the microwave. Castiel brought it to his ear with a smile and said, "Dean?" before he realized what he had done.

The ground was unsteady beneath him. The whir of the microwave became grating and the voice, decidedly not Dean, spoke but Castiel could not hear it. He stared at the flickering of the screen but could not read it. The microwave screeched and the food's aroma flooded the kitchen, but his phone still blinked and the person kept calling his name and it wasn't Dean and it couldn't have been Dean anyway because Dean did not know his number.

"_Castiel? Are you there?_"

"What is wrong with me?" Castiel asked himself, reading and rereading Anna's name.

He really wanted it to be Dean.

The microwave kept screeching.

* * *

"Are you ever going to tell me your name?" Dean asked, laughing. He'd just put away two boxes of leftovers and could still feel the buzz of beer in his head from the dinner that ran well past midnight. It was ablaze with friendly conversation about work and Sam and Dean never wanted to leave.

"_When the time comes_."

"That's not vague at all."

"_It was intended to be._"

Dean sat at the table; across from him was the chair Sam once claimed as his own. "I can't just keep calling you that angel on the rad- uh…"

Laughter rang from the phone, warmer than the feelings in Dean's stomach, leftover from dinner. "_You may call me whatever you'd like, Dean._"

Sam's chair seemed less empty, somehow.

"It almost feels like you're here," Dean said, envisioning a blue-eyed figure that was six feet tall and weighed one hundred and seventy-two pounds sitting across from him.

The image was grainy, but Dean swore he could see it say, _"I am there, Dean. I am there in heart."_

* * *

Sam felt bad about leaving Dean alone, but there was a certain pressure put on him from his peers. He liked Jessica. She was beautiful and smart and funny. Sam followed her to her cabin because it would have been crazy not to. After all, it was just him and a few fellow friends. What was the worst that could happen?

Jessica had a cousin named Ruby. Ruby was Dean's age and wore a leather jacket that stank of alcohol, her eyes as sharp as her attitude. She took one look at Sam, sized up the gentle giant, and had declared to everyone, Jessica included, "Dibs."

She was dark and peculiar and abrasive. Sam didn't stand a chance. He found himself stroking his fingers through her large curls and watching the light from the fireplace tumble over her eyelashes. Yeah, he probably shouldn't have blown Jessica off for her cousin, but the soft tan of Ruby's wrists suggested otherwise.

They waltzed around each other for days.

When Sam thought everyone was asleep from their Thanksgiving feast, he crept into the kitchen to find the radio. He quickly tuned in to Midnight Matters, not surprised at all to hear his brother's voice.

_"Yeah, I stayed after all. They wouldn't let me leave_."

"_That is because they love you, Dean."_

"What's that?" Sam startled at the voice. Ruby stood in the doorway in nothing but a t-shirt and lace underwear. Sam kept his gaze trained on her face.

"Midnight Matters. It's a radio show," he said. She walked toward him. In the dark, she was like a daze or a dream.

"_My brother brought me quite the meal. I could not hope to eat it all._"

"_Well, then you're not trying hard enough._"

"I didn't peg you as the type," Ruby said, leaning against his side. "Is this one of those self-help things? Figures you're crazy. I knew it was too good to be true."

Sam rolled his eyes and gave her a gentle shove in the shoulder. "That's my brother," he said, and he didn't know why he said it. He hadn't meant to.

"_What are you thankful for, Dean?"_

"_Right now? Your unwavering tolerance of me."_

"_Don't be ridiculous, you are hardly intolerable."_

"Which one?" Ruby asked.

"Dean."

Ruby and Sam stood in the dark, watching the red light on the radio, listening as it spoke to them.

* * *

In Topeka, Kansas, Charlie laid on her bed. Her laptop was out and she typed vigorously as the radio beside her spoke.

_LK: I feel like you can't possibly be that irritated with him if you just let him get away with it all the time._

_MM: I promise, I am often ready to string him up by his hair. Alas, that requires strenuous effort._

_LK: Good to know you're too lazy to ever become a true criminal_.

Charlie laughed, her fingers flying across the keys. She was careful to not miss a word, but even if she did, certainly other members of the forum would also be transcribing.

A dark haired woman peaked through her door.

"Lawrence, Kansas again?" she asked.

"Yep."

"It's Thanksgiving."

"Technically, not anymore," Charlie said. She saved the file and set her laptop aside. The others would have to continue for her. "But I get it. Come over here, Dorothy."

Dorothy smiled and slipped into bed beside Charlie.

"_It's a family thing. And family is more than blood, it's who you know. Who is there for you. Who you wish was there. The voice you want to hear when you answer the phone. The people you love that love you."_

_"You capture it beautifully, Dean."_

_"Oh, shut up."_

* * *

Jody had her head pressed against Bobby's shoulder. They sat together on his beaten-down couch and she had to fight to keep her eyes from closing.

_"What is it that makes up love?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"Surely you've got an idea."_

Bobby ran his hand through Jody's cropped hair, the gentle sensations driving her further into bliss. She tried to stay awake, to focus on the voices that drifted from the radio.

"_It's kind of like a puzzle I guess. Even if you have all the right pieces, it can be difficult and it takes a lot of time and effort."_

_"What happens when you've finished it?"_

_"Well, you put it on the table and tell your little brother you'll kick his ass if he touches it."_

_"Dean!"_

_"I'm serious though. Be proud of it, and don't let anyone or anything fuck it up."_

Jody's mouth hung open in her slumber. Bobby could feel her soft breath against his jaw.


	8. You've burned into my bones

Sleepless in Lawrence, Kansas – chapter eight – You've burned into my bones

If Dean kept his eye closed, he could see the arm and the naked shoulder that guided it. It started with the sweet brush of knuckles across the tender dip of his thighs. An open palm pressed a determined trail up and across his hip bones. The hand was large and although the nails were chipped, they gave a perfect scrape across his fevered skin. Heat accumulated in the pit of his stomach and his groin, churning and pushing a swift exhale from his lungs.

Dean pressed a forearm over his eyes and let the hand, calloused, scrape at the underside of his twitching cock. He wanted a mouth on it… on him… to leave slick kisses just under the curve of his ribs. He could feel the tick of the old clock on the wall whistle through his veins, just off-kilter with his fourth note heartbeat. The cold air that seeped under the oak door scratched at the shield of his blanket where it could not reach him, not in his cocoon of sweat and steam.

The hand finally wrapped itself around him and held his base, teasing. A tug. A second, far crueler tug. Dean's forearm pressed harder until he saw flashes of stars on the back of his eyelids from the pressure. Then the hand really began to work him all while a voice rattled in his head. It whispered, _Dean_, and he came with a distorted gasp.

Dean threw the blanket off himself, wiping his hand across its damp edge.

In the shower, he tried to pretend that he had no idea who the voice belonged to.

* * *

Castiel still didn't like Crowley. As nice as it was to have the reassurance of his alliance, the man's bloodshot eyes and perfectly ironed suit kept him on his toes around the station head. He wasn't afraid. In fact, Castiel was certain that he _should_ be afraid of the stout man, but was unable.

"Well, well, well…" Crowley said, crossing his arms. "If someone had told me two months ago that your little _Midnight Matters_ would become the top rated show on the station, I would have scoffed." He imitated the exaggerated and quite painful sounding gesture.

Castiel's eyes widened.

"What?"

"You heard me. Top rated. The numero uno slot."

Castiel had to sit down, but he was already seated. He needed to lie down.

"If this persists, not only will I renew your contract, but I'll find myself forced to expand it." The man brushed nonexistent dust off of his shoulder, as if he hadn't just offered to guarantee Castiel his future. "Perhaps a considerable pay raise?"

"Do you mean this?" Castiel asked, doubt nipping at his insides.

"Absolutely. You've got big things ahead of you, Mr. Novak." The 'k' was said with great emphasis. "And as for Dean Winchester, well, I'm just waiting for the opportunity to send him a bottle of Evan Williams, if you know what I mean."

Castiel didn't.

"It's not drawing too much attention to him, is it?" Castiel asked. Crowley raised an eyebrow at him and rolled his shoulders.

"Does it matter?"

The man exited with a flurry of his coat and Castiel wasn't sure how anyone could make so much noise leaving a room. He sat at the board table with his fingers crossed on his lap and the empty Styrofoam cup on the edge taunting him.

"It matters," he said to no one, and tipped the cup over.

* * *

It wasn't the bed's fault that Dean kept waking up hard with a consistency he hadn't suffered through since high school. It was Dean's own fault (and perhaps, Sam's absence) that rather than letting the problem fix itself, he wrapped himself up in the morning and imagined his ministrations being those of someone else… someone with a distinct voice that he knew well enough to make it say just what he needed to go over the edge.

It wasn't the bed's fault, but he slept on the couch anyway in an attempt to stave off the desire. With his shoulders settled in the broken corner and his cheek against the armrest, Dean slept fitfully.

It might have been the smell of alcohol that never quite washed out of the upholstery or the tender touch of his mother's blanket settled over him, but he dreamt of her. More specifically, the way she curtained over him while he slept. Her hair was curled and the collar of her white, lace shirt was the same as the picture on he kept on the dresser. It was as though she had stepped right out of it. Mary reached down to brush a bead of sweat from her son's forehead. Her caress was familiar even after so many years.

When Dean woke up, he wasn't sure how he'd ever be able to sleep again.

He picked up the phone.

* * *

_"I dreamt about my mom,_" Dean said.

"Is that unusual?" Castiel asked, turning in his chair to fish through his computer for a track. Dean had called at just about the end of his session, much to his displeasure.

"_It's just been a while is all. I used to have nightmares about her all the time, but recently, it's been pretty quiet."_

"Nightmares?"

The line was silent.

"_Did I ever tell you about how my mother died?"_

"Not that I recall."

"_It's probably the most vivid memory I have._"

"Why don't you tell me about it?" Castiel asked. "If you would like."

"_I was asleep when the fire started. I mean, I was supposed to be. I was only four. My mom tucked me into bed earlier and she smelled like this cheap perfume that she loved because my dad bought it for her, even though she deserved better._"

Castiel closed his eyes and imagined it, like rancid flowers.

"_I would have slept through the smoke. Just laid there and died because I was a heavy sleeper. When my dad showed, shaking my shoulders, I thought it was morning already. I thought that I was late for breakfast, and that's when I noticed the smoke._"

"You remember how it smelled?"

_"Yeah. Like when my dad burned pancakes or the time we had a bonfire at Bobby's, but more sour. My dad dragged me out of bed and shoved a bundle in arms… told me to run. I didn't realize until I was down the hall that the bundle was Sam."_

"Dean…"

"_I was scared. They never really let me hold Sam, at least not without supervision. I stood in the road and when I turned back, the house was spitting fire out of every window. The ground had turned black from ash and there was a constant crackle, like popcorn, and one by one the walls began to crumple. I remember coughing. I remember Sam coughing. And then my dad was there, but my mom wasn't."_

"I'm sorry, Dean," Castiel said, rubbing his eyes. "No one should be burdened by such a vivid trauma."

"_She died in Sam's nursery. They said the smoke got her first. In my dreams, she burns alive, floating like an angel_."

"I'm sorry."

"_And she looks at me."_

"I'm sorry, Dean."

* * *

Dean was becoming _accustomed_ to the voice on the radio. In fact, it remained as consistent in his routine as going to work or doing the dishes. Sometimes it felt like more... like carpet rash. Dean had come to know the man's voice the way he knew his own skewed reflection. Well, but always filtered.

Dean knew that people sounded different on the phone. That was okay. He knew the voice, and the voice knew him.

"_I like to think the two of us have become close."_

"What can be said? You've burned into my bones." Dean rifled through the pile of unopened envelopes on his table. There were over forty.

"_You make it sound so tragic._"

"Isn't it? I know you so well but I don't know you at all."

"_Circumstances are not friendly, but we should be grateful for their given opportunity._"

"Yeah. Probably. Many seem to have jumped on an opportunity of their own."

_"What do you mean?"_

Dean scowled at the various names written in excessive cursive, some riddled with hearts.

"Someone leaked my address. Probably some douche from work. I've been getting what I can only refer to as fan mail."

"_What?"_

"I've got almost fifty on my table right now. So I guess this goes out to your other listeners, but you guys are wasting your time. I'm not reading it." Dean crumpled one of the letters, as if making a point. "You hear me, you vultures? I'm not opening a single one!"

Dean wanted to know who had recognized him, turned around and said, _hey, here's that guy's address. Have fun_. Damn them if he ever found out.

"_I am sorry to hear of this latest development. Listeners, please respect Dean's privacy and cease your attempts to make contact._"

"Thanks. And you know Sam won't let this fan mail thing go. I told him this morning and he laughed 'til I hung up on him. You're the one I want to talk to, not them."

Why did he say that?

"Dean," the man said.

"I got a plant," Dean stammered, desperate to back out. "It's small, but it's supposed to get flowers on it so… that's cool. Things are cool."

"_Things are cool,_" the man repeated.

"Yeah, things are cool."

* * *

It was the first time Castiel had been to the man's apartment, but he could not find the energy to admire it.

"I'm beyond furious."

"It's alright, Cassie. You need to calm down."

He probably did need to calm down. He'd slammed every door he came across since leaving the station the night before. Gabriel looked at him with a constant wince and it was deserved.

"Did you find out who leaked it?" Castiel asked, helping himself to his brother's stash of whiskey.

"I was prepared to dedicate the entirety of my afternoon digging through copious sources for you, brother, but it was the first result I found," Gabriel said opening his laptop and placing it on the kitchen table.

"Have you ever heard of Bela Talbot?"

Castiel shot a scowl at Gabriel and finished his glass, refilling it. "Doesn't she have a gossip column?"

"That would be correct. And you think the address is bad? You have to see what aired this morning. You might wanna sit down." Gabriel sounded serious, so Castiel was terrified.

Castiel stumbled over to the couch. Its leather creaked where he sat. On the large screen was a video waiting to be played. The screenshot was of a woman with long, winding curls of light brown hair and a black dress. She sat on a chair across from another woman with straight black hair.

"That's Bela," Gabriel said, pointing to the first woman. "The other is Tessa. This is her show."

Castiel had a bad feeling about it all, especially when the first thing Bela said upon pressing play was, "_I'm here to talk about Dean Winchester._"

_"Are you a fan of Midnight Matters_?" Tessa asked her. The two of them kept their backs straight as if trying to out-proper the other.

_"Hardly. I listen nightly because haven't you heard? It's all the rage right now._"

"_You said before that you met Dean Winchester, how would you describe him_?"

Bela tossed her hair back and laughed. "_That's hard. Dean Winchester is everything that he is made out to be on Midnight Matters. He's dreamy and polite and one of the most handsome men I've ever met. I didn't know eyes could be as green as his._"

The audience laughed and Castiel swallowed.

"_But that boy, not man, boy, has more issues than are worth approaching. If we're being honest, which I intend to be, Dean Winchester is problematic."_

_"That seems a bit harsh, doesn't it?" _Tessa said.

_"I've been listening to Midnight Matters for a while now, but I am not going to lie and say that I ever gave it a second thought until Mr. Winchester joined our dear host, whom has refused under all circumstances to reveal him name. It's suspicious how even his most open listeners are not granted the permission."_

"Wow," Gabriel whistled. Castiel could not muster a word.

_"It's been very clear all along that Dean suffers from codependency. What with his emotional unbalance at the loss of his brother, when in reality the 'loss' is nothing but a normal and inevitable separation."_

_"You don't think that the host has been helping him to deal with that codependency?"_

_"Absolutely not. Nobody is dealing with it. In fact, our mystery man is only making Dean dependant on him, rather than his brother. Midnight Matters is the number one slot as of this week on The Hound radio station. They are romanticizing an unhealthy relationship and everyone is on board. This isn't what Dean needs. What he needs is a therapist. These two are toxic to each other, and I blame Midnight Matters entirely. He's holding a bone out to a starved dog behind glass and calls it helping… has everyone worshiping him for his glorified kindness. Last night Dean said that the man had burned into his bones, and listeners everywhere swooned."_

_"What is your disdain of this love affair? Isn't this the business of these two alone?"_

_"But it's not. What happens when you take thousands of problematic people and give them a terribly detrimental example of how to fix themselves? They are following this road of self destruction almost religiously. Dean Winchester has entire forums dedicated to him. Viewers transcribe every word he says like it's gospel. This isn't just two men being problematic… it's more than that."_

_"Thank you, Ms. Talbot._"

Castiel would have launched the laptop across the room had Gabriel not grabbed his wrists.

"Stop it," he said as Castiel yanked back. "Don't let her work you up."

"She's right."

"No, she's not."

"All I'm doing is hurting Dean."

"No, you aren't."

Her words, like a hot wire, scraped off his skin in layers. He was supposed to be helping people… when did it become just helping Dean? Castiel didn't care about those others listening in, being influenced by his own destructive bond, if it meant severing it. He wanted to say that it was none of their business, but he remembered Crowley in the conference room, proving that Bela was not wrong. It was never Castiel and Dean. It never had been. It was Castiel and Dean and the world that had paused for a while to listen in. To care.

"She's right because this is about us, Gabriel. Maybe it has been for a while." Castiel choked back a lump in his throat. "It was supposed to be about Dean needing something… but now…"

"Now?" Gabriel asked, holding his arm far more gently.

"Now it's about me needing him."

* * *

"This is stupid."

"It's not stupid."

"He doesn't read them anyway."

Gabriel slammed his hand on the table, startling Castiel. "Exactly! He won't read it anyway so why worry? It's the perfect way to get your feelings out. At least, enough so that you can handle all this crap rationally."

Castiel stared at the blank paper in front of him, knuckles tight around his pen.

"Write it. Send it. He'll never read it. This is just for you."

Castiel gripped the pen tighter.


End file.
